


Mortality Crisis

by Lise



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Gift Fic, Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Injury, Light Angst, Post-Canon, churches and demons don't get along, there's a lot of anxiety going around here, this isn't as heavy as the tags make it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 16:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: After the Armagedidn't, an accident reveals a new and decidedly inconvenient wrinkle in Aziraphale and Crowley's peace and quiet.





	Mortality Crisis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lena7142](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena7142/gifts).



> As usual, the idea for this fic came directly from [the usual suspect](Http://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com), who then mentioned that she had a birthday coming up, and...well. How could I not write Good Omens fic where Crowley suffers for her birthday?
> 
> It has been _ages_ since I actually read the book, but I tried to stick pretty close to the rules I remembered - recognizing that I'm probably playing fast and loose with them in a few places. I tried, and that's what counts.
> 
> Huge thanks to [Amelia](http://ameliarating.tumblr.com) for editing and [foxinaglade](http://foxintheglade.tumblr.com) for Brit-picking (and there's a word I haven't used in many years). New fandoms are scary; fandoms with history are even scarier. The encouragement and excitement of people on my Tumblr was invaluable in actually making this happen.
> 
> And of course: a very, very happy birthday to Lena - an incredible friend and a marvelous human being. In this wide, wide, internet, I'm so glad we crashed into each other.

Every being possessing either angelic or demonic power on Earth these days was required to use some sort of corporation. It hadn’t always been policy, but at a certain point it was decided on both ends that the time had passed for pinwheels of fire and flashes of lightning. Times had changed. And while there was certainly some initial complaining, things settled down quickly enough. Compliance rates were high. Above and Below both concluded that there was tactical utility as well as practical benefit. 

Of course, the major drawback was the problem of _dis_ corporation. There were relatively few items on the earthly plane capable of damaging celestial or infernal matter, but there were quite a lot of items on the earthly plane capable of damaging regular old _matter-_ matter, and it took an appalling number of rather embarrassing accidents for this to sink in. Measures were hastily taken (discorporation quotas, disciplinary action, appalling amounts of paperwork) to ensure that everyone was a little more careful, and avoided being struck in the head by falling turtles. 

There were always accidents, though. Unavoidable catastrophes. Unexpected avenging angels. Volcanic eruption. 

Exploding gas mains in Mayfair, say, a week after an averted Apocalypse, two streets over from the flat rented by one Anthony J. Crowley, who was up until that point having a very fine morning.

* * *

He hurt.

Rather a lot, in fact. His head felt a bit like someone had tried to split it with an axe, his ribs had that distinctly unpleasant ‘cracked’ feeling, and there was an urgent throbbing just above his hip. Also, someone seemed to be talking to him, though it took a good few seconds to figure out what they were saying, and then a few seconds after to piece together why he was lying down in the street.

Explosion. Yes. Crowley considered the possibility of Below, could not sense any sign of the infernal, and concluded that this was something else. 

“--you hear me?”

Oh, Crowley thought. That was what they were saying.

“Yes,” he said, though it sounded a bit funny. His vision clarified, though, on a very concerned looking woman staring down at him. “It’s fine,” he informed her. “I’ll be all right in a minute.” And started on the process of getting up. 

He didn’t get very far before his body shrieked furiously at him that it was a _bad idea,_ which brought his attention back to that pulsing pain in his side and, well, that explained some things. Rather, the bit of metal where it definitely shouldn’t be explained some things. 

“Huh,” Crowley said. 

“There’s fire,” the concerned woman said. “Might be another explosion - hang on - we need to get you out of here.” 

“Yes,” Crowley agreed, “that sounds like a good idea,” and this time around he did manage to sit up with a sound like a badly oiled hinge. Moving brought on the realization that it appeared that he really had bled a lot, and also he’d lost his sunglasses. It was very nice of his company to be polite about it. 

Frowning at the metal sticking out of him, Crowley went ahead and pulled it out, which should have been fine but apparently wasn’t. He’d never been very good at pain. He didn’t _faint,_ mostly, but things did get a bit fuzzy, and when they were unfuzzy again he had been moved. Was still being moved, actually, and not very gently.

“All right,” he said. “All right, that’s enough, just set me down a minute and I’ll be fine,” but what came out what mostly, “ngh.” 

“It’s going to be okay,” said the woman attempting to be helpful and in fact mostly just making everything hurt a lot worse. She sounded breathless and very worried. “Just getting a bit away from the fires and possibly more explosions - it should be safe here--”

And such was when Crowley felt it, ‘it’ being the transition from normal, perfectly comfortable ground to the prickling, burning feeling of holy ground.

“Oh, no,” Crowley said, semicoherently. “Don’t do that. Take me back-”

“Don’t worry,” she said, still drag-carrying him. “Just a bit further.”

“Really,” he tried again. “The street was fine.” His voice slurred worryingly. 

She put him on a pew. “Easy does it,” she said. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said again.

The trouble with holy ground was not just the burning on his feet through the soles of his snakeskin shoes, or the funny bubbling feeling in his blood, or the general prickling on his skin like being covered in nettles.

It also played merry hell with certain useful demonic abilities, like the healing ones. Same reason you couldn’t just miracle yourself out of being exorcised. Heavenly power, demonic body...generally bad combination.

And Crowley rather needed those healing powers right now, because there was rather a lot of blood that seemed to be on the wrong side of his skin.

“I ssshould really be going,” Crowley tried again, hiss slipping out just a bit. “Thanksss, but-”

“Just relax,” she said loudly, not sounding relaxed at all, pushing him back down. “You’re bleeding-”

“I _know_ I’m bleeding,” Crowley said irritably. “That’sss why I need to get out of here!” There were ants crawling around under his skin, a sensation for which Crowley had all too good a reference. 

“Just stay there,” she said. “I’ll be right back - going to see what’s going on-” and she was off, before he could say _great idea, take me with you._

“Oh, come _on!_ ” he said loudly. There were, of course, rather fantastic acoustics.

Crowley tried healing himself again, but the only real result he noticed was the ants crawling a little more quickly for a few seconds. Otherwise nothing. No one was stopping him from getting up anymore, so he made another attempt at that and wobbled approximately two steps toward the doors before he wasn’t upright anymore. 

Slithering might be easier, but snakes also had less blood, generally, and so could afford to lose proportionately less. Probably there were already a few snakes worth of blood on the floor as it was. 

There was, it occurred to Crowley’s increasingly muzzy brain, a distinct possibility he was going to discorporate. And considering his status in Hell these days (less than positive), it was fairly unlikely he’d be granted a new body. It was fairly unlikely he’d be granted any mercy, either, not that mercy was something Hell had a lot of at the best of times.

Staring up at the beautifully decorated church ceiling, it all seemed horribly unfair. 

Not to mention that he _very_ much wanted Aziraphale to be here, and he wasn’t. Just the prickly, uncomfortable feeling of holy ground, the pain of his body informing him vociferously that there was something wrong with it, and the ability to fix this entire problem just out of reach. 

* * *

Things got a bit slippery again. He was briefly in a church during the Second World War where Aziraphale was getting himself threatened by a couple of Nazis, and then in a _different_ church during the 14th century full of plague victims, arguing with Aziraphale about whether this was better or worse than the one in Athens.

It was very cold in here. Crowley did not understand why so many churches seemed to have a grudge against proper heating. The last time he’d been this cold was....

He couldn’t remember. 

He couldn’t remember a lot of things, he realized abruptly. That seemed like a bad sign. He _did_ think he remembered his company saying that she was going to get help, but she hadn’t come back yet. Maybe she wasn’t. 

“ _There_ you are, my dear!”

The very, very familiar voice jarred Crowley a little ways out of his drifting, enough to summon a sort of “mmnh?” noise of vague surprise and bewilderment. He opened his eyes to see a fuzzy white blur in front of him. His hands were very warm when they moved Crowley’s away from where they were resting mostly uselessly over the leaking hole in his body. 

“Oh,” said the voice. “ _Dear,_ ” in a very different tone. 

“Mmmh,” Crowley said, and then significantly louder, “ _mmmh,_ ” when the white blur poked a finger into him. 

“ _That_ isn’t good,” he said, and then, “what in God’s name are you doing in a _church,_ Crowley _?_ ”

_Wasn’t my idea,_ Crowley thought, and wanted to say as much. He couldn’t quite seem to manage it, though. He was very tired, and thought he would like to go to sleep. A century-long nap, that ought to do it. There was some reason he shouldn’t, it seemed like, but it didn’t seem particularly compelling and he couldn’t remember anyway.

“No, _no you don’t,_ ” said Aziraphale - it was Aziraphale, wasn’t it? That was slippery too. “Crowley-”

Heavenly power hit him like an articulated lorry, and with roughly the same effect.

* * *

Crowley didn’t awaken in Hell, as he had half expected would be the case given his last few moments of recent memory. He was in a bed, though he was fairly sure not his. The smell was different, but reassuring, tickling at a memory of his still foggy head. 

He had it a minute later and opened his eyes to confirm that he was, indeed, tucked neatly into Aziraphale’s bed, though there was no sign of the angel himself. There was sun coming through the curtains, and he was in significantly less pain than he remembered. 

The door opened a crack, just the tip of a nose poking through, followed gingerly by the rest of Aziraphale. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said with audible relief. “You’re awake.” 

“Ngh,” Crowley said. Aziraphale frowned slightly.

“You _are_ awake.” 

He made a similar noise again but turned his head a bit to better see Aziraphale without moving very much. The frown deepened. “Crowley?”

“That,” he said, with somewhat less than perfect clarity, “felt a lot like a smiting, angel.”

The stricken look on Aziraphale’s face was not satisfying at all. “Oh,” he said. “That.” He didn’t _flutter,_ but he did look very uncomfortable. “I didn’t expect - I think it must have been something about consecrated ground amplifying the effect, and you were quite, well…” He trailed off, grimacing.

“I remember,” Crowley said. It made sense, he supposed. That the location might enhance a certain...incompatibility of natures. 

No, he corrected himself. Not _incompatible,_ just a bit fractious.

Still, it was a bit funny, after several thousand years, to be quite so aggressively reminded of the fact that, bookstore and tartan aside, Aziraphale was still very much an Angel, and Crowley was still very much a Demon. All that about choices and such and then you stuck in a church, and remembering your first time on the wrong end of a smiting, which wasn’t a particularly fun memory to revisit. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale began gently.

“Worked out all right, didn’t it?” Crowley interrupted. “Good as new.” He smiled, though it felt a bit strange. Aziraphale did not look convinced by it.

“Hm,” he said. Crowley fidgeted.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I’ll be off, then. Things to do, and that.” He started to get up. Aziraphale could move surprisingly quickly when he had a mind, though, and pushed him very firmly back down. 

“No,” he said, “I think you can stay a bit. Just to be certain there’s no, ah, aftereffects.” 

Crowley eyed him suspiciously. “That’s never happened before.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, “you’ve never fainted at a healing before, either.”

“I feel fine _now._ ”

“ _Now,_ ” Aziraphale said ominously. Crowley was beginning to have a peculiar feeling that he was missing something rather significant.

“Did something happen, angel?” he asked.

If Aziraphale’s wings had been visible, or perhaps if he’d been a duck in St. James’ Park, he would have been puffed up to twice his size. As it was, he tried. “Other than you almost _dying?_ ”

Crowley almost objected that he had not almost _died,_ he’d almost _discorporated_ which wasn’t exactly the same thing, but he supposed considering he wouldn’t have been coming back the difference was largely academic. 

So he kept his mouth shut and just blinked at Aziraphale, who huffed loudly and then said, “I’d think you would remember _that,_ too. And all things considered - all things considered I don’t expect that Below would send you back.” 

There was, Crowley observed, a bit of a distressed wobble to Aziraphale’s voice. 

“They might decide it wasn’t worth dealing with me for eternity,” Crowley said. Aziraphale’s look was scathing, and he didn’t dignify that with a response. After a moment Crowley cleared his throat, sank back into the pillows, and said, “I suppose it’s a good thing you came along when you did, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said after another pause. “It is.” 

They looked at each other for several seconds. Aziraphale pressed his lips together, said, “I am going to make some tea,” and turned on his heel, closing the door rather hard behind him. 

“What’d I say,” Crowley said to the closed door, but of course it didn’t respond.

* * *

Crowley meekly drank the tea Aziraphale made, watching him closely while Aziraphale pretended not to notice. “Can I go home now,” he said, once he had finished. Aziraphale gave him a sharp look, and then sighed. 

“You aren’t a _prisoner,_ ” he said stiffly, but he got a bit tight around the eyes.

“Maybe just downstairs,” he proposed. “A chair. Some wine.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, and Crowley said, “I really do feel _fine,_ angel. That’s the point of a miraculous healing, isn’t it? The miraculous healing bit.” He wiggled his fingers illustratively. 

“Hm,” Aziraphale said.

A prickle of annoyance went off like the warning rattle of a kind of snake he definitely wasn’t. “What’s gotten your feathers so ruffled? Is it just that it stung a bit? I’m not holding a grudge.”

“I think it was more than a _bit,_ my dear,” Aziraphale said. 

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said too cheerfully. “I am.”

Crowley hissed. It wasn’t entirely intentional, just that he was frustrated, and confused, and _stung a bit_ was indeed an understatement and he still didn’t like thinking about why. “Are you still making a fuss about me nearly discorporating? Because I didn’t, and it was just a stupid accident, so I don’t know why–”

“That’s _exactly_ why,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Because it was a _stupid accident_ and you got caught in it, and I thought you _were_ dead, you might have been if I hadn’t happened to hear about an explosion and Mayfair and got worried, and like I said, it’s not the same as it was before - you’re practically mortal now, Crowley!”

Crowley opened his mouth to disagree, then shut it. It wasn’t _true,_ true - he wasn’t about to start aging, or anything like that. But functionally, in terms of ‘when you die, you’re dead’ - well. It wasn’t exactly _easy_ to kill a demon, but it could be done. And that would be it. 

It wasn’t just him, either. Above wasn’t the forgivingest place either, and if something happened to Aziraphale...no second chances, no take-backs, no possessed psychics. End of story.

His mouth went dry.

“You could be eaten by a fish,” Aziraphale said. “Or - or hit by a falling piano, or the Bentley could turn on you-”

“The Bentley isn’t going to turn on me,” Crowley said, but he was thinking worriedly about Aziraphale being impaled through the head with a carrot.

“Some other _stupid accident,_ ” Aziraphale said. “It _could_ happen, and I…” He took a slightly shaky breath in, and turned a little pink. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “You’d miss me, is that it?” he said. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “I would.” 

“It could happen to you, too,” Crowley said. “And healing isn’t exactly a demonic forte, you know.”

“That doesn’t make it _better,_ ” Aziraphale said irritably.

“I didn’t say it did,” Crowley said. “Just that…well. It’d be a terrible waste of a brand new non-ended world. Having to eat at the Ritz by myself.”

Aziraphale came over and sat on the bed. “It would,” he said. But Crowley didn’t think he was exactly talking about the same thing.

Neither of them really looked at the other. 

“Perhaps we both ought to say we’ll be a bit more careful,” Crowley ventured. Aziraphale glanced at him.

“You?” he said. “Careful?” 

“Could try it out,” Crowley said. “For a change of pace. Might be fun.”

Aziraphale shook his head, but with a very faint smile. “Oh, Crowley,” he said, but it sounded affectionate. 

He found a dashing smile, and miracled himself a new pair of sunglasses. “So how about a glass of wine?”

“I could be tempted,” Aziraphale said. Letting it go, apparently. His hand twitched, like he was about to reach out and thought better of it. He stood up. “I’ll see you downstairs?”

“Imminently.”

Crowley stared at his angel’s retreating back, this brand new world suddenly feeling a lot less safe. How did humans do it? Walk around every day with possible death on every side?

He knew the answer to that one. They didn’t think about it, mostly. Good strategy, probably. 

“Red or white, my dear?” Aziraphale called up the stairs. 

“Surprise me,” Crowley called back, and decided to do the human thing and not think about it. At least for the rest of today. 

There was always tomorrow. 

Hopefully another 2,190,000 tomorrows. Maybe, maybe not. No plan, no roadmap, no meddling. 

That could be exciting, if he let it be. And he was really, really going to try to let it be. Above and Below could fuck themselves.

There was an angel downstairs, and a bottle of wine to share. 

He could start there.


End file.
